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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256912">A Lion Lurks in Every Heart - Awake it Not</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/twiningsfortwo/pseuds/twiningsfortwo'>twiningsfortwo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beauxbatons, F/F, F/M, Gambling, Graphic Medical Imagery, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Hermione Granger, La Place Cachee, M/M, Match Fixing, Medical Procedures, Mob Violence, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War, Remember Cedric Diggory, Slow Burn, St. Mungo's Healers (Harry Potter), The Spice Girls, Unspeakable Harry Potter, medical drama, sports racketeering</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:27:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,671</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/twiningsfortwo/pseuds/twiningsfortwo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger is a skilled mediwitch in the Janus Thickey Ward of St Mungo's Hospital of Magical Maladies, her skillful wand work healing the sick and wounded with a seemingly effortless proficiency. However some problems are too great, even for Healer Granger to solve, and a botched treatment costs her licence for an agonizing three month suspension. Can Hermione ever return to the hospital and face her failures?</p><p>Viktor Krumov suffered a crushing defeat by the Egyptian team - not only losing out on the snitch, but suffering an extreme injury to his catching arm via a cursed bludger strike, and subsequent crash into the ground while pursuing the snitch. Now, looking down the barrel at a lengthy, non-magic rehabilitation after the extensive damage to his body and the certainty of prosthetic, he might never be able to play Quiddich again.</p><p>There is only one witch who has the knowledge to deal with a combination of Magical and Muggle treatments to help Viktor through his rehab. But will she be able to move beyond her failure to help? What's more, how will she cope with her infectious feelings for her once-patient, Viktor?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum, Katie Bell/Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue - The Quiddich Game</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Why hello, folks! I am not a super fast writer, but I figure I can keep myself a little more accountable by posting here instead of trying to write it all first. It's unbeta'd so please forgive that, but I'll do my best to keep it edited. Otherwise, here's my attempt at what has become my favourite pairing! As they say, write the story that you want to read, and I'm trying to do just that. I'd love to know what you think!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>2010; Quiddich World Cup, London, England</em>
</p><p>Viktor Krumov flew like a falcon, unfettered by gravity. The fans' screaming voices faded into white noise when he was on his broom, sweeping circles around the pitch, searching for a flash of gold.</p><p>The coach made it clear that the seeker for Egypt's team this year was really good, and that Viktor would need to be at his best to secure the win. He wanted so badly to bring the Cup home to Bulgaria, to do his beloved country proud.</p><p>He heard the golden snitch before he saw it, whistling as it flitted by him. He was in a dive before he could think, plummeting through the air, the glimmer of gold the very centre of his focus. His opponent quickly came into view, just as focused, but he faded out of Viktor's mind. There was only one thing he could afford to focus on. It was only metres away.</p><p>A searing heat and pain crashed through his arm, rolling through with the force of a storm. Blackness encroached on his vision as Viktor fought to concentrate, clinging to consciousness. <em>The golden snitch was right in front of him, he almost had it --</em></p><p>The wind screamed in his ears as he reached out with his other hand, cradling his shattered arm to his chest. The ground was coming up fast. Muscles shrieking in protest, he fought to keep his broom steady with nothing but his legs and core, plummeting through the air at breakneck speed. He could still win this. He could still pull off the catch for his beloved Bulgaria, and bring the World Cup home. He just needed to go a little bit further...</p><p>Until the telltale flash of gold disappeared into the glove of the Egyptian seeker. Viktor's mind went blank. For a moment too long, he quickly realized: <em>Oh fuck</em>.</p><p>He pulled up with all of his strength, body bracing for impact, his legs burning in effort, his arm all but useless, but he pulled with every ounce of strength that he had.</p><p>As the pain thundered through his body, he had one thought before blackness took him.</p><p>
  <em>I failed.</em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1 - St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>On the outside, it all looked the same. Diagon Alley had been repaired, and was full of busy shoppers again. The same old apothecary selling the same old ingredients. Ollivander’s had been rebuilt; the old wand on the dusty purple pillow sat in the window like it always did. Even Hogwarts itself had soldiered on, shrugging off the damage of the final battle and carrying on. But for Hermione, it didn't feel like home anymore. Harry and Ron had settled into brand new careers right out of graduation, and in Harry's case, a surprise new marriage.</i><br/>She didn't regret her choice to not return to Hogwarts after the battle. She had to move on, and she chose to do so with her career in France. Maybe not everyone understood at the time, but –<br/>“Healer Granger, you're needed in the 49th, room 7.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">** TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC MEDICAL DRAMA ** </p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <b> Chapter 1 - St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies </b>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Hermione Granger sank gratefully into her armchair. It was slightly broken, held together by little more than repair charms from countless healers collapsing onto it in a heap of exhaustion. But it was so comfortable, and perfect for moments such as these. She sipped her tea, letting the soothing balm wash over her. She felt a brief pang of nostalgia. While tea was indeed the bringer of life, and the tea served in the Fifth Floor Tearoom was nothing short of miraculous on busy days, <em>nothing</em> could beat the espresso she used to have when she lived in Paris. She glanced down at her cup regretfully.</p><p class="western">Hermione missed France. It had been years since her graduation at Beauxbatons, and subsequent apprenticeship in <em>l'Opital de Flamel,</em> but she still found that she missed the energy she felt in Paris. She missed the <em>cafés</em> and the rich green trees hanging over the waters near the Canal<em>.</em> She missed her cozy flat, barely enough space for anything beyond her bed and reading nook. It was tiny, but it was hers, and she had loved it so. She missed pouring over new medical techniques while perched upon the window ledge during her break at the hospital, the wide beams of sunlight warming her body. She liked to gaze down at the witches and wizards who bustled down the street towards <em>la Place Cachée</em> through the panes of coloured glass.</p><p class="western">Accepting the position at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies had been unexpectedly difficult. She'd always intended to complete her apprenticeship in Paris and to return to England. After all, everyone did; Paris was, as always, leaps and bound ahead of England in terms of medicine. France pioneered the study and combination of magical and non-magical treatment. The best of the best studied in Paris, and Hermione wanted to learn from the best.</p><p class="western">Returning home after years abroad, after all she'd lost in England... Nothing really felt right. England didn't feel like home anymore. On the outside, it all looked the same. Diagon Alley had been repaired, and was full of busy shoppers again. The same old apothecary selling the same old ingredients. Ollivander’s had been rebuilt; the old wand on the dusty purple pillow sat in the window like it always did. Even Hogwarts itself had soldiered on, shrugging off the damage of the final battle and carrying on. But for Hermione, it didn't feel like home anymore. Harry and Ron had settled into brand new careers right out of graduation, and in Harry's case, a surprise new marriage.</p><p class="western">She didn't regret her choice to not return to Hogwarts after the battle. She had to move on, and she chose to do so with her career in France. Maybe not <em>everyone</em> understood at the time, but –</p><p class="western">“Healer Granger, you're needed in the 49th, room 7.”</p><p class="western">Hermione looked up from her tea to see a grim look on the normally smiling face of her fellow Healer, Padma Patil. Hermione set down her tea at once; which, she decided, was getting cold anyway.</p><p class="western">This sudden call to work was quite normal of any Healer of the Janus Thickey Ward, commonly referred to as Ward 49. It was challenging work, at times extremely so, but Hermione felt perfectly in her element when being faced with such a challenge. Long hours, complicated spellwork, problem-solving; everything she thrived on was all right here.</p><p class="western">She reached backwards, fingers catching on the lime green robes which hung on the back of the chair. She threw them over her shoulders as she followed Padma out of the Tearoom, towards the stair to the fourth floor. Racing down the steps, she felt for the reassuring slender wand in her robe pocket. She could feel the gentle undercurrent of magic within the ivy wood, warm and comforting in the same way that holding hands was warm and comforting.</p><p class="western">“In here. Oh, and close the door,” Padma added, sweeping into room 7 before Hermione had the chance to ask what the hurry was. <em> Close the door? </em>Hermione wondered. Doesn't that go against hospital protocols? Opening her mouth to say so, she turned into the room.</p><p class="western">The question died on her lips. The normal bustle of the Ward seemed almost sedate in comparison to the maelstrom of chaos she just walked into. Bodies were crammed into the room, some in the lime green of the Healer, and others in robes of a deep red with gold trim, black numbers in the centre of the back. Sleek, shiny brooms were stacked haphazardly in the corner. Hermione promptly closed the door.</p><p class="western">The white, pointed goatee and shiny bald head of Head Healer Thorn stood well above the rest, his eyes flashing with annoyance as the crowd tried to move in. Shouts filled the tiny room, but couldn't cover the howls of pain emanating from the patient, hidden from her view by the crowd in the room.</p><p class="western">“For Merlin's sakes, Volchanov, move aside!”</p><p class="western">“Vill he be ok?”</p><p class="western">“Healer! It’s getting worse!”</p><p class="western">“<em> Onova shibano kopele! </em>”</p><p class="western">Head Healer Thorn's sharp tenor cut through the cacophony. “You will kindly <em>stand aside</em> or you will <em>remove yourself, and your team, from my hospital!</em>”</p><p class="western">Hermione’s heart dropped in her chest. She realized that there was something achingly familiar about that voice, crying in pain. Padma caught Hermione's eye, tipping her head towards the chaos, as if to ask, <em>are you ready?</em> Head Healer Thorn's sharp eyes singled them out immediately.</p><p class="western">“Healer Patil, you found Healer Granger! Good, good. Front and centre ladies, wands at the ready. You lot, <em> get out of the way </em>, or we won't be able to help him.”</p><p class="western">Finally, the wall of red robes began to shuffle off, the howling of pain growing exponentially louder the closer she got to the patient. Hermione pulled out her wand, the warmth of the magic seeping into her hand and arm, filling her with confidence and power. Determined, she stepped right next to the bed.</p><p class="western">Finally, enough of the people moved aside, and Hermione's jaw clamped shut. The cloyingly sweet, yet unmistakably noxious scent of rotting flesh reached her nostrils. Her throat jumped into the back of her mouth. The patient was twisting and writhing on the hospital bed, his arms and legs held down by three other healers. His body was drenched in sweat, his hair lank, sticking to his forehead, almost obscuring his heavy brow and aquiline nose. His right arm, wrapped in bandage, was seeping a strange, black liquid, dripping and hissing. She stepped closer, hearing an exhausted murmur of pain coming from his lips. At first, she fought to understand what he said, before it clicked. He wasn’t speaking in English at all – he was speaking Bulgarian.</p><p class="western">Her breath blew out of her in a gust. “<em> Viktor </em> , oh <em> Merlin </em>!”</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Hermione was running diagnostic charms before she even realized what she was doing, barely noticing that Padma was doing the same. Head Healer Thorn began herding the Bulgarian Quiddich team out of the room.</p><p class="western">“Viktor? Can you hear me? <em> Chuvash li me </em>?” Hermione asked, drawing the first charm movement in the air, searching for the resultant blue or red glow. Instead of a sudden light, a wail of pain wrenched its way out of Viktor’s mouth, his whole body shaking violently, the stench of rot wafting through the air. The spell barely took, the pale blue glow of the target area weak and effusive instead of bright and clear.</p><p class="western">“Merlin’s beard, what happened?” Hermione asked.</p><p class="western">One of the players answered. “He vas hit vith a bludger during the match, den his arm vent like <em> dat </em>.”</p><p class="western">Hermione’s brows pinched, observing. Thinking.</p><p class="western">Padma tried the same spell, the charm drawn in the air above his body. A low moan turned into a shout, turning on the bed and taking one of the healers with him, pulling them clean off the ground. One of the Bulgarian Quiddich players rushed forward to pull the healer back up.</p><p class="western">Something wasn’t right.</p><p class="western">“Healer Thorn!” Hermione called, watching the second charm Padma cast diffuse entirely, eliciting another anguished shout from their patient. Thorn appeared at her shoulder, with one of the Quiddich players who seemed to be clinging to Viktor’s bedside with the tenacity of a barnacle.</p><p class="western">“Any luck yet?” the healer asked.</p><p class="western">“No, but—”</p><p class="western">“Then get back to it, Healer Granger! We need to know what’s going on before his arm gets too—”</p><p class="western">“The diagnostic spells aren’t working!”</p><p class="western">Thorn paused, glancing over at Hermione, his eyes piercing. “Aren’t working?” Thorn drew an intricate spell, so quickly that the tip of his wand was a blur. He cast it with an impatient jabbing motion. The black, necrotic flesh glowed a vicious-looking radioactive shade of green briefly, before the magic sizzled out entirely. Poor Viktor barely had any voice left to shout in pain. Instead, he rasped urgently.</p><p class="western">“I need to see his arm,” Hermione demanded, staring her superior in the face.</p><p class="western">Thorn gave Hermione a grim look. “It’s not a pretty sight.” Yet, he gave a brief nod of the head.</p><p class="western">Hermione turned back to Viktor, shoring up her resolve. If she could watch Ron get horribly splinched, or watch Hagrid carry Harry’s dead body up amidst a hoard of Death Eaters, or see the twisted and terrible aftermath of Dolohov’s curse on her own body when she was only 16 years old, she could handle anything. “<em> Diffindo! </em>” she intoned, neatly severing the bandage around Viktor’s arm.</p><p class="western">The stench of rot increased tenfold once the bandage was removed. Hermione fought back the sudden need to empty the contents of her stomach all over Ward 49. The stubborn Quiddich player wasn’t quite quick enough. Hermione did her best to block out the retching.</p><p class="western">Viktor’s arm was horribly mangled, the flesh turning black around a broken bone, which stood proudly, poking out of the arm itself. The flesh surrounding it seemed to ooze and dissolve before her eyes, as if necrosis had set in at an exponential rate. A curse, <em>obviously.</em> A very nasty one. This was no stray bludger; this was attempted murder. <em>Viktor was so lucky that this only hit his arm,</em> she thought, a shiver creeping up her spine.</p><p class="western">Head Healer Thorn walked around to the other side of the bed, Padma stepping away to see to the Quiddich player, who was now as white as a sheet. The wizard turned, running his hands through his short, curly hair. The back of his robes declared his surname. Volchanov.</p><p class="western">Tentatively, Hermione tried another spell. This was a gentle one, something used to clean out wounds before healing them up. “<em> Aguapurifico </em>,” she whispered, the words lost in Viktor’s screams, ratcheting up the very moment the magic swept against the wound. She watched as the spell brushed up against the black liquid pooling in the increasingly large festering black hole in his arm, only to fade into vapour and vanish completely.</p><p class="western">It was almost as if the wound <em>resisting</em> the magic... but how could that be? Hermione’s mind raced.</p><p class="western">“The curse must be in at least two parts,” she declared. “Part of it is a flesh-eating curse, and part of it is some kind of ward. Every spell we cast is being rejected or repelled.” The other healers shifted nervously, save for the Head Healer, who simply looked resigned.</p><p class="western">“Head Healer,” one of the assistants asked, “have you ever seen anything like it?”</p><p class="western">Thorn shook his head. “That's not going to stop the best team at St Mungo's, Healer Magee. Go on, Healer Granger.”</p><p class="western">She took in a breath, and continued. “It could take too long to untangle the part of the curse that repels magic, the necrosis could spread too far and he could be dead by then. We need to diffuse the ward first before we can get at the flesh-eating curse.”</p><p class="western">Padma's jaw dropped. “There's no time for that! Wards can take weeks to break!”</p><p class="western">Hermione looked up. “Option two, we use non-magic medicine.”</p><p class="western">“<em>Kavko?</em> How vill you heal dis curse with no magic?!” Volchanov demanded, still looking distinctly green, but pulling himself together.</p><p class="western">Thorn looked Volchanov straight in the eye. “Get out of the way, or get out of the room.<em>”</em> He took in a breath, glancing around the room at his healers. He’d made up his mind on a course of action; it was written in the set of his shoulders.</p><p class="western">“Healer Patil, you will assist me. Healer Granger, do what you can about this ward so that we have options while Patil and I prepare to remove the arm. Everyone else, wands away. Healer Magee, get this patient some Dreamless Sleep and the strongest Pain Potion we’ve got. And someone fetch me a coffee, for Merlin’s sakes!”</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Hermione studied the wound, doing her best to detach her observations about the limb from <em>Viktor</em>, her dear friend and confidante. They had fallen out of touch over the years, but he’d never been any less dear to her. He’d seen something in her long before anyone else, and she had felt valued in his presence, even after all these years. She'd be <em>damned</em> if she didn't find a way to save his arm. To save him.</p><p class="western">Hermione focused her mind on the ward, tuning out all else. The screams and shouts, the smells, the migraine she was beginning to feel, it all fell away as she examined the problem: a dual-cursed forearm with a short time limit. The curse itself seemed to be creeping up his arm, incrementally but ceaselessly. It trickled through his flesh, seeping through his muscle like a cloth absorbs a spill. Every millimetre filled the air with the syrupy sweet stench of rot.</p><p class="western">She touched the curse again, gently, probing with the tip of her wand. She could almost feel the interwoven threads of magic, two different kinds, like a tapestry. The ward was the weft – structural, uncreative, sturdy and flexible. The necrosis was the weave, like glistening threads of shiny wet ink. The two were interlocked so tightly, there was no way to untangle them in time.</p><p class="western"><em> But </em> , Hermione wondered, <em> If I can’t cast magic on the wound, maybe I can use something else. </em></p><p class="western">“I need some essence of dittany, and murtlap essence” she declared, reaching for a large copper basin on the crash cart. Muggle crash carts had mostly supplies of pharmaceuticals, but the Magical equivalent had a variety of strange things. Bezoars, basic potions, cauldrons, basins, tinctures, balms, fresh and dried herbs, and anything else you could imagine. Much of its contents were stacked impossibly, perpetually teetering but somehow never falling.</p><p class="western">A quick <em>ferula</em> and Hermione conjured fresh new bandages into her copper basin. One of the assistant healers quickly poured in a dram each of the essences over the bandages, which Hermione left to soak. They would be ready when she needed them.</p><p class="western">Now, the ward. The trickiest part of the whole equation.</p><p class="western">Hermione's attention was ripped away from her task when she heard her name.</p><p class="western">“Granger, if we don’t stabilize him soon, we could lose him!” Padma shouted, narrowly dodging a flailing limb.</p><p class="western"><em> He was going to die if this curse reached his organs, </em> Hermione thought <em> . Time is running out. </em></p><p class="western">“Oh, of course! We need more <em> time! </em> ” Hermione shouted, whipping her wand around again, ignoring the startled cries of the healers. She gestured over Viktor's entire arm, from the shoulder to the fingertips. “ <em> Arresto tempus!” </em></p><p class="western">“Merlin, Granger! What are you doing?!” Padma shrieked.</p><p class="western">The flesh looked strange, immobile in time. It almost looked fake. The ugly oozing stopped mid-bubble, and wisps of putrid steam were frozen in the air above the skin.</p><p class="western">Head Healer Thorn looked mildly impressed, if only for a moment. “How long can you keep that up?”</p><p class="western"><em>For Viktor? </em>Hermione thought, <em>for as long as it takes.</em></p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Head Healer Thorn and Padma got to work, clearing away the area while Hermione maintained the spell. Her mind whirred at a breakneck pace, trying to put the whole picture together in her mind. The ward was the problem. The counter-curse to a flesh-eating spell was relatively simple, though it could not restore the flesh that had already died, it would simply halt the process. But with the ward in the way, they couldn't tackle the real issue. How do you get around a ward?</p><p class="western">You break it, but they didn't have enough time to bring in specialized cursebreakers. You pull it down, but this was only something that the caster could do, and they had even less time to find the culprit than they did to bring in a cursebreaker. You don't remove it at all and find another way around. Wards were the prime choice for protection and containment due to their immense power and longevity.</p><p class="western">Suddenly, the last few puzzle pieces fell into place. Or, you find flaws in the ward's internal logic, and fool it.</p><p class="western">“Viktor, I need you to listen. <em>S</em><em>lushaĭ me</em>. I need you to be strong for me, can you do that?” Hermione muttered, looking at the creases of agony in his face. His dark, intense eyes were almost black with pain, but through the fog they flickered. He was as conscious as he was likely to be.</p><p class="western">“I need you to tell me what colour of light you saw when you were hit by the bludger.”</p><p class="western">Unbeknownst to Hermione, Healer Thorn's eyebrows raised. She was concentrated entirely on Viktor's response, every movement and whisper. He moaned, his lips moving as if they were forming shapeless words, barely a murmur escaping. Thorn re-fixed his attention on his own task.</p><p class="western">“Viktor? Can you understand what I'm asking?” she prompted, moving in closer, hoping to catch his answer. His eyelids fluttered. He was losing consciousness.</p><p class="western">She glanced at Head Healer Thorn, praying he was looking the other way, before she tried <em>this</em> particular option. She pressed her wand to Viktor's temple, slick with sweat, and whispered a spell. Long, silvery filaments drifted from his forehead, clinging to the tip of her wand, and arcing in the air as if held aloft by static charge. She glanced around, looking for some sort of receptacle for the memory. She settled for an empty mug, surreptitiously dropping it in the dented cup, praying that it would be clean enough to view the memory.</p><p class="western">When Padma and Healer Thorn moved around Viktor's body to get a better sense of where they might be best to amputate his arm, Hermione quickly swirled the memory with the tip of her wand in the dented cup. She watched it, praying no one noticed the twenty hospital protocols she was currently flaunting by taking and viewing a memory without consent or a court order. But if it saved Viktor's life...</p><p class="western">She could barely make out the memory, as it sloshed awkwardly around in the mug. The image was blurry and halting, as if the memory passed over record scratches. She could just make out a glancing flash of gold light, but everything else was too fast. She took a moment to marvel at Viktor's flying skills, viewing the end of the game from his eyes. Not all of the blurriness seemed to come from the poor receptacle, much of it seemed to be an indication of just how fast Viktor was flying.</p><p class="western">But too soon, with the snitch itself just before her eyes, the memory was over in a flash of a pulsing deep red. Hermione almost dropped the mug as she tore herself away from the memory, clinging to the colour.</p><p class="western">A blood ward, it had to be. Only a blood ward would glow in such a scarlet shade. Excitement began to flutter in Hermione's chest. “Are any of the healers in the room Purebloods?” she asked.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey folks! So that's chapter one, I hope you enjoyed it. It's coming along slowly, but I'm doing my best! I'll see if I can update more than once a year like my previous story in the Sanctuary fandom, which I still adore but have written myself into a corner, so I'm taking a break from that. Either way, this is a space for this story! So, without further ado, notes! </p><p>I loved the idea of being able to turn any object into a pensieve – I know that it's not particularly canon, but I liked the sense of ingenuity that it gives Hermione. She doesn't necessarily see the Wizarding World the way others do; just because pensieves have always been one way doesn't mean that it's a good enough reason for her to assume it can only be that one way. Her ability to see beyond is one of my favourite aspects of Hermione's character, and one I'm excited to explore! </p><p>Also, I do not speak Bulgarian, I did my best with a translator and very short sentences:<br/>Chuvash li me? = can you hear me?<br/>Kavko = What<br/>Onova shibano kopele = that fucking bastard<br/>Slushaĭ me = listen to me</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2 - A Thorn in Her Side</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hermione would have grinned if the circumstances weren't so dire. “I suspect that this is a blood ward. It's the most common ward in use, and one of the most effective. Since we don't have time to bring in a curse breaker, I suggest that we fool it to get around it."<br/>“And if we get through the ward in time,” Padma added, “we may not need to amputate after all.”<br/>Head Healer Thorn stared for a moment, before pulling himself back together. “Alright people, let's give this a try! Healer Granger, get that tempus out of the way and we'll give this a shot.”</p>
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    <p>The entire ward seemed to freeze, to which Hermione raised an eyebrow. <em>It was a simple enough question,</em> she thought.</p><p>“Anyone?”</p><p>“Well I am,” offered one of the healers, an awkward yet talented fellow by the name of Cameron Burke. He had a long face, high cheekbones, and eyes so dark they almost seemed black. His raven dark hair was a riot of shapes standing up in odd ways, reminding Hermione quite firmly of Harry in that respect. Yet, while Harry's hair was a cacophony of tight curls, Healer Burke's hair was a mess of mismatched, just-rolled-out-of-bed angles. He cocked his head, pursing his lips, “but... <em>why?</em>”</p><p>Hermione would have grinned if the circumstances weren't so dire. “I suspect that this is a blood ward. It's the most common ward in use, and one of the most effective. Since we don't have time to bring in a curse breaker, I suggest that we fool it to get around it. Most blood wards are used by pureblood families to protect their ancestral homes, correct? I suggest we attempt to circumvent this ward by emulating the caster with someone who is related. The closer the relation the better of course, but most purebloods are related anyway.”</p><p>“And if we get through the ward in time,” Padma added, “we may not need to amputate after all.”</p><p>Head Healer Thorn stared for a moment, before pulling himself back together. “Alright people, let's give this a try! Healer Granger, get that <em>tempus</em> out of the way and we'll give this a shot.”</p><p>There was a flurry of activity almost instantly. Hermione released her time spell, and Healer Burke stepped forward, his long, gangly limbs seemingly barely fitting in the space he inhabited. He drew his wand, which was rather reminiscent of his appendages, as it was quite long and thin as well, and stepped in beside Hermione. “<em>Sanguine aperio</em>.”</p><p>A ripple of magic slid out of Healer Burke's wand, shimmering colourlessly through the air. The magic collided with the wound, already creeping up his arm now that it was released to time. Poor Viktor writhed on the hospital bed, his throat shredded from how much he had already screamed. Gentle and constant, Healer Burke applied his spell, sweat beading on his brow.</p><p>“Oi, this is...” he trailed off.</p><p>Hermione watched intently – blood wards were a form of magic she saw very little of, given her own blood status. She could almost see the questing tendrils of the spell probe the open wound. She was ridiculously reminded of a jellyfish reaching out as it drifted through the sea, though the comparison vanished the moment Healer Burke's expression turned dark.</p><p>“Whoever cast this was... I don't think I can...” Burke's forehead had broken out in a sweat as he focused his magic.</p><p>Hermione watched Viktor turn pale – paler, if that was even possible. “Healer Burke, stop. I don't think you're closely related enough. The person who cast this must not be in the Sacred Twenty-four. But who else would think to use it...”</p><p>She glanced around the room, reaching for options. She'd been <em>so sure </em>that this would work... it was only logical. If it's a blood ward, it needs blood to be broken. Purebloods are the few wizards who have the knowledge to use them, or the inclination. It made sense, she knew it for certain, but something was missing.</p><p>If Healer Burke isn't a close enough relation, then who was? Who cursed the bludger? And how could they find out in time before Viktor rotted to death?</p><p>Hermione felt a twinge in her belly, for the first time since she'd shoved it all down. This was no time for what ifs, but... her Viktor. Her poor Viktor! Who would wish him harm in this fashion? Hermione wracked her brain for any hint, any lead. Anything.</p><p>“<em>Onova shibano kopele...</em>” Hermione spun to see Volchanov, the Bulgarian player, muttering to himself. He was sitting on a chair, leaning forward, his elbows planted firmly on his knees. His face was white as a sheet, his curly hair in sweaty tangles atop his head, leaning slightly askew. Her Bulgarian was spotty in some places, but she could pick out the cussing easily enough. Her eyebrows shot up.</p><p>“Do you know who did this?” she demanded of the Quiddich player. “<em>Molya te kazhi mi!</em>”</p><p>Volchanov looked up, looking haunted. “<em>Ne go pravya</em>...”</p><p>“<em>No</em>?” Hermione prompted. She was sorely tempted to cast a stinging jinx to hurry the man up.</p><p>“... <em>ne moga</em>.”</p><p>Hermione sucked a tooth in frustration, distantly aware that her hair was beginning to pull out of the bun she'd managed to stuff her curls into.</p><p>“O<em>t Dŭrmstrang li e?</em>” she asked, her accent atrocious but she couldn't be bothered to care. He shook his head, indicating a yes.</p><p>An idea hit with the subtlety of the Hogwarts Express. “Did you go to Durmstrang too?” she asked, her heart leaping in her chest. He shook his head again. Hermione sprang forward, snatching his hand and yanking him closer to Viktor's bedside. “Cast the spell then, <em>sanguine aperio</em>.”</p><p>The other healers in the room squawked their protest, before Hermione moved between them. “We must! It didn't work for Burke, meaning that his line was too far from the person who cursed our patient. Maybe Volchanov's will be closer! He went to Durmstrang, all students of Durmstrang are purebloods, and closer to each other than to the Sacred Twenty-Four. He's our best choice.”</p><p>She found Head Healer Thorn's gaze, deep and probing. “Head Healer, please.”</p><p>Thorn's eyes darted, as if his thoughts were speeding before his eyes. She held her breath.</p><p>“Very well,” he said, giving Hermione a hard look. She understood, loud and clear: <em>this had better work, this is on your hands. </em></p><p>Volchanov's eyes met Viktor's prone form. Something warm flickered in the deep brown of his iris, some kind of fondness. She almost missed it when he cast the spell, the words foreign on his tongue.</p><p>“S<em>anguine aperio.”</em></p><p>Despite his heavy accent, the magic surged through, shimmering through the air and settling into the wound. The whole of the area briefly glowed deep scarlet, and the tension in the room suddenly drained. Everyone could feel it – the ward had been lifted.</p><p>Hermione only had a moment to spare to give Volchanov a grateful smile. But the moment was over too soon, and she flew back into action.</p><p>“Good work, son,” Head Healer Thorn said, clapping a hand on Volchanov's shoulder. “Now step aside, we'll get rid of this curse.”</p><p>Thorn stepped toward Viktor's prone form, pulling his wand out once more. He began a gentle wand motion, almost like a conductor directing gentle music, and made a series of soft waving motions above Viktor's arm.</p><p>“Sevoco septis,” he said, his voice clear and resonant. His wand seemed to jiggle in his hand, before a white mist wafted from the tip, settling over the arm like snow. Hermione watched with fascination as the spell seemed to draw the curse out of his skin, soaking it up as it turned to black flakes. Wordlessly, Thorn brushed them away, preserving a small sample to test later.</p><p>The terrible smell seemed to lessen somewhat, and the hairs on the back of Hermione's neck began to relax. She hadn't even noticed that she'd felt so put-off by the curse until it was removed, and it felt like her skin was suddenly clean, as if the curse had made her feel oily by comparison.</p><p>“Is that it, then?” Padma asked, reaching for the cloths that Hermione had prepared. “Can we start with the Murtlap mixture?”</p><p>Thorn gave a tight nod, and the room seemed to collectively ease. Padma's lips played at a tiny smile, as she wrung out the cloth and began to clean the arm. The skin was still blackened, but no longer oozing. The damaged skin stayed the same, but the active curse seemed lifted. Hermione moved in, ready with the dittany. She let herself breath out a small sigh of relief.</p><p>Thank Merlin, Viktor was going to be ok.</p><p>
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</p><p>Viktor was first aware of the clamour, loud voices and the whistling sounds of magic being cast. What had happened? Where was he? What was all the noise for?</p><p>Next, his world swam into blurry view. Colours and vague shapes wove in and out of his lashes, a shock of bright light and a terrible shade of green. He squeezed his eyes shut, but splotches of light seemed to stay behind his eyelids.</p><p>An awful, sickly sweetness hit his nose and he felt his throat jump up in protest. Something herbaceous followed, that was much better, even soothing.</p><p>“Viktor, can you hear me? <em>Chuvash li me</em>?” asked a voice, warm and soft. It sounded familiar, he was sure. The Bulgarian was heavily accented, but he couldn't place it.</p><p>“<em>Da</em>,” he replied, though barely a sound came out. Instead, his throat felt like it had been sliced open. Viktor desperately wished he'd stayed asleep. Voices from faraway, while his world swam in and out, murmured and mumbled.</p><p>“A pain potion,” said the warm voice.</p><p>A gentle hand lifted the back of his head, and a cold something was pressed to his lips. The edge of a bottle, he thought, which was quickly confirmed when a bitter liquid was poured into his mouth. He barely managed to swallow it down, but the pain in his throat began to numb and ease.</p><p>“You're still with us, Mister Krumov? Good, good. Healer Patil, please inform the coach that he's awake, but tell him we're keeping him for observation,” a man said, the kind of voice that demanded a person to snap-to, or heads would roll.</p><p>The coach? Why not <em>Mama</em> or <em>Tate</em>? He struggled to grasp memories, which felt like ghosts, sliding through his fingertips.</p><p>“Vhere--?” he managed, his voice a whisper.</p><p>“St Mungo's Hospital, in Britain,” the warm voice replied, “you were brought here from the game. Do you remember?”</p><p>He tired to, with little success. He barely recalled the game. He was playing against Egypt, Zaghloul was a brutal opponent. Beyond that, nothing. He nodded his head.</p><p>“You do?” asked the brusque voice.</p><p>“Pardon me, Head Healer, but nodding your head means 'no' in Bulgaria,” the warm voice said.</p><p>“Did... ve vin?” Viktor asked. His question was followed by a painful silence. The blurry shapes of people moved, and he pinched his eyes shut, waiting.</p><p>“I'm sorry, Krumov. Egypt took the Cup this year,” the man replied. Viktor winced. He must have been injured and failed his team. He'd failed his beloved Bulgaria.</p><p>“Which is, frankly, <em>prepostrous</em> in my opinion. Clearly he was targeted, they should not have counted that catch. There's even a precedent from 1402, when the Greek team was--”</p><p>“Enough. We'll leave that for the aurors and the folks in the Department of Magical Sports. We're here to put his hand to rights.”</p><p>“My hand?” Viktor asked, “vhat do you mean?” There was a brief, telling silence.</p><p>“Viktor,” said the warm voice, sounding almost like Hermione, “you've sustained an injury to your arm. On a scale from 1-10, how much does it hurt?”</p><p>He concentrated his attention on his hand and lower arm, but it was all numb. He barely felt a thing there. His upper arm, on the other hand, felt like it was on fire. He'd felt worse, but that kind of worse was something like 20 on the scale from 1-10. Viktor frowned. It certainly put things into perspective.</p><p>“My biceps, maybe 6 or 7. My hand and low arm, maybe 1 or 2.”</p><p>“A 1 or 2 Krumov, are you sure?</p><p>“Da,” he shook his head once more, “it barely hurt. My head though, my head hurt. Feel like I drink five bottles of firewhisky.”</p><p>He tried to move his hand, but it was utterly unresponsive. His arm, too, didn't seem to want to listen to his brain. A jolt of worry sent Viktor's mind into a spin. Why wouldn't his arm move?</p><p>There was a scratching sound, and clinking sounds. Maybe bottles of potion. He once again tried to get the blurry images of the world to focus, and stay still so he could just figure out what was going on.</p><p>“Get out of my vay! Don't you know who I am?” came another voice, thundering and truly familiar voice. That was one bellow he'd recognize anywhere. Alexei Levski, his former teammate and current Coach. He was burly for a former chaser, barrel chested and loud. He had an unusually square face with a small button nose, and a cocksure swagger.</p><p>“Coach Levski, one moment if you please,” said the brusque voice. It cut through the air like a scythe, seemingly right through the other noise. “Before you see him, you need to know.”</p><p>A hand touched his upper arm gently, and Viktor looked to the woman Healer at his side. Finally, details began to come together as his head stopped swimming. Her skin was like chestnut, her hair tied back into a bun, yet stubborn curls seemed to have escaped and made a humid halo around her face. Her eyes were the same, deep hazel he remembered from Fleur's wedding.</p><p>“Hermy-own,” he whispered, hardly believing what, or who, he was seeing. “Vhat are you doing here?”</p><p>She smiled, the green flecks in here eyes sparkling. “I'm at work, of course. Do you remember how you got here?”</p><p>“<em>He,</em>” he said, her face losing detail again. “Is all a blur. I remember flying in game, but dat is all.”</p><p>“He vhat!” Levski yelled, sending a shiver down Viktor's spine. That voice usually meant more laps around the pitch. “I vill see him! Now!”</p><p>“Viktor,” Hermione whispered, “we'll do our best for you, ok? Don't forget that. We're going to do everything we can to help you recover.” She pressed her hand to Viktor's sweaty brow, before moving away so that Levski could be at his bedside.</p><p>“Krumov, my boy, what in God's name!” he shouted, his voice on the edge of hysterical.</p><p>The Healer with the hard sounding voice walked over. “Levski, I need to get in touch with his family. This is what we're left with after stopping the curse. They need to know what they're dealing with.”</p><p>He pulled the thin hospital sheets away from his arm, and Viktor looked down at his hand. The smell from before, the sweet, awful smell, was coming from his arm. It was completely black and too thin, from the fingers to his elbow. The lack of feeling in his arm now made much more sense. It was necrotic. Viktor's breathing sped up as he took it all in.</p><p>“Krumov, I need you to calm down. We're going to help you, but I need you to relax,” the Healer said, the sharpness of his tone suddenly vanishing into a gentle, deep rumble.</p><p>Viktor felt his whole body begin to shake as he stared at the strange black flesh that was somehow still attached to him. His brain couldn't understand that this weird, unresponsive arm was his own.</p><p>“Viktor, we're going to figure this out,” Levski added. Viktor glanced around for Hermione, but she was gone. He moved to sit up, to look again, but only on arm seemed to obey him. Panic filled his mind.</p><p>His arm still wouldn't move. He tried to wiggle his fingers, to move his hand, to move his arm at all, but the strain simply made his biceps burn with pain, something far beyond a 10. The blackness crept around his vision, until he passed out.</p><p>
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</p><p>Hermione pulled her purse from her locker, before giving the door a tap with her wand. It obediently flew closed, and locked. She tossed her bag over her arm with a sigh. What a day it had been. What an exhilarating day! Difficult, and stressful of course, but exhilarating. That was why she loved her profession, every messy minute of it. She was good at this, she could save lives. She could make the world a better place.</p><p>It was hot, in her healer's robes and other layers aside. But still, it was the end of the day, and she could finally release her hair from the strangle-hold it was in, tied into a rebellious bun. She untwisted the hair tie and her curls sprang back to life. The headache she didn't notice she had until she'd let down her hair began to ease, the constant pull on her scalp conspicuously absent. She fluffed her curls. It felt so good to finally be done for the day. She had a date with Crookshanks and a large glass of wine.</p><p>She was tossing her outer robes around her shoulders when she heard short footsteps coming down the hall. She turned to find Head Healer Thorn at her shoulder in an instant.</p><p>“Granger! In my office!” he clipped, turning on heel and striding down the hallway. Hermione felt her face pale, but she steeled her nerves. She'd faced far worse than a Healer. She threw her purse over her shoulder and stalked down the hall after him.</p><p>As soon as Hermione stepped through the door, it closed of its own accord behind her. She found a mug pushed under her nose.</p><p>“Explain,” he hissed. It was the dusty mug from room 7, Viktor's memory wafting within it still. Hermione looked up, looking the Head Healer in his steely eyes.</p><p>“Viktor's life depended entirely on speed,” she replied, her teeth clenching. “I knew it was a ward, but we needed to know what kind.”</p><p>“So you invaded your patient's memories?” he demanded, dropping the mug on his desk with disgust.</p><p>“There was no other way! He was blinded by so much pain, we couldn't ask him, and he was the only one who could have seen it. He was barely conscious. Within the constraints of implied consent--”</p><p>“That was nowhere near implied consent, and you know it! We have protocols for a reason, Healer!” he snapped.</p><p>“Yes, Head Healer,” she said, trying to look passably contrite. It didn't matter. She was right, and it worked. She'd saved his life! Thorn should be pleased that Viktor didn't die on his watch!</p><p>“Healer Granger, I am very disappointed in you. You jeopardized the patient's safety and privacy, and you could get the hospital sued for your indiscretions.”</p><p>Her mouth fell open. She inhaled to argue.</p><p>“Not a word!” he snapped, “Not a word out of you! You are on extremely thin ice, and by all accounts I should have your licence for this! If I see any line-toeing from you from this point forward, you'll be thrown out of St Mungo's, war heroine or not! Because, Ms. Granger, you were not the only one to save lives during the war. Healers were just as much on the front lines as you. Do <em>not</em> make the mistake of thinking that you deserve special treatment here.”</p><p>Her eyes flashed with rage. How dare he! How dare he assume he knew what she had done! To say that anyone knew what she had been through!</p><p>She bit her tongue. Her job was worth biting her tongue for.</p><p>“Yes, Head Healer,” she replied, her voice flat and emotionless.</p><p>Thorn eyed her face, looking for the fiery dissent she was known for, his expression betraying nothing. She looked at her shoes.</p><p>“Go home, Granger. I don't want to have this conversation again.”</p><p>
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</p><p>Hermione walked through the Floo into her home, exhausted and agitated. Thorn had no right to reprimand her. Regardless of how clear it was that Hermione was correct, that it was obviously the best course of action, Thorn just couldn't let it go. Hermione let out a frustrated sigh, dropping her lime green robes on the back of the chair near the dining table.</p><p><em>What a day.</em> Hermione gave the waiting Crookshanks a scratch behind his whitened ears before heading straight to the kettle to make herself some tea. A quick <em>aguamenti</em> and her kettle was full, followed by a wordless tap. The heat bloomed through the kettle, settling comfortably over the kitchen within moments.</p><p>Viktor. It was still strange to think that it was the same Viktor who studied with her in the library, a lifetime ago. Hermione kept up with their letters, though the war was too much for their budding relationship. Hermione let herself remember as she measured out her tea leaves, precisely level one teaspoon for her mug.</p><p>Those were simpler days, she thought. The days before the threat of Voldemort had come down so heavily that any idea of romance had fled from her life. Viktor had his own share of difficulties during the war, and though Hermione knew he'd not told her everything, she'd suspected he'd suffered greatly throughout.</p><p>She tapped her wand on the side of the kettle once more, and it levitated gently, pouring itself into her ready mug. Steam wafted in the air, the gentle smell permeating the air. Hermione sighed again, feeling bereft. It was still nowhere near as good as the espresso in Paris.</p><p>She looked around her flat, which stubbornly remained in England. It wasn't bad, so far as flats went. It was big enough for her and Crookshanks, and the occasional overnight visitor. More often, she stayed elsewhere for her paramours. Crookshanks didn't really like it when she had visitors, and if Hermione was feeling honest, she'd say she didn't enjoy having visitors much herself. After long shifts at the hospital, she barely had the energy to take off her socks and collapse onto the couch, much less host guests.</p><p>She took a deep sip, letting the warmth seep in.</p><p>A distant flutter broke her thoughts, followed by a scratching on the window. She hauled up her tired body, and went to open the window. A large eagle owl flew in, taking up most of the opening. The owl seemed to look down its beak at her, and she rolled her eyes. The owl's owner seemed to get along with her just fine, but this owl would never warm up to her. Perhaps, she mused, this was how other people felt about her cat.</p><p>An origami crane fluttered out of the owl's talons, before shuddering in the air and coming to life. It soared in circles around Hermione's head before landing gracefully on her outstretched hand. She couldn't help but laugh. It was so typical of him. It unfolded itself in her palm and she instead had a creased letter, in elegant, loopy cursive.</p><p>
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  <em>Ma cherie,</em>
</p><p><em>Word has it that you had a long day with a certain famous personage – I demand to know everything. From what I've heard, it's attempted murder. Nasty business. And before you complain about confidentiality, I have it on good authority that the story will be all over the Prophet tomorrow anyway, so there's really no secret. Or, you could help me finish this bottle of </em> <em>Côtes du Rhône. Surely you could use some destressing after such a day. Lucky for you, I have the perfect diversion. Formal dress not required. In fact, no dress is required at all. </em></p><p>
  <em>Yours, </em>
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  <em>DM </em>
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</p><p>Hermione's smile turned wry. Perhaps some <em>destressing</em> was just what she needed. She looked back to the owl, who was kneading the windowsill, evidently impatient to get back in the air.</p><p>“He asked you to wait for a reply? Alright, one moment,” she said, reaching over to her desk and pulling out some spare letter paper. She pulled out a pen (because writing with a quill in the 2000s was utterly absurd, in her opinion,) she scribbled out a response in the affirmative.</p><p>“<em>Centuplum floridis</em>,” she muttered, making a soft arc with her wand over the paper. It gathered itself gently, and folded into a many-petalled flower. She spelled a long stem, and handed it to the owl.</p><p>He hooted with impatience unbefitting an owl, and flew out the window. Hermione couldn't help but grin. The owl was just like his master, really. Maybe he'd be persuaded to make her an espresso.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey folks! Thanks for sticking with me while I figure my stuff out! I hope this chapter helps give you a general idea of where things are going, I'd love to hear your thoughts or see any questions or concerns you might have! This will be a long, slow fic I suspect, but I'm really hoping it's worth it. Thanks again for reading so far!</p><p>Molya te kazhi mi - Please tell me</p><p>Ne go pravya - I don't but</p><p>no – but</p><p>ne moga – I can't</p><p>Molya te - please</p><p>ot Dŭrmstrang li e? - is he from Durmstrang?</p><p>He - No</p>
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